


Clean House

by belle_reve



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlolly - Fandom
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Romance, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:57:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1773262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belle_reve/pseuds/belle_reve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s mind-palace has gotten a rigorous house-cleaning: after an accident, he’s suffered some memory loss and thinks he's an actor named Benedict- but someone is watching him, he can feel their gaze. Meanwhile, a string of strange deaths have taken place, following his movements. Who is watching him? Can he solve the Heartbleed murders? Will he recover his identity...or will he even want to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

****

 

 **[-** _Chapter I: Prelude-_ **]**

_< <Relax! You’re panicking.>>_

_< <Right, nothing makes tension vanish like screaming at yourself to relax.>>_

_< <He needs to function.>>_

_< <No, he needs to feel his emotions. You’re not Vulcan, no one can function without properly feeling emotion.>>_

_< <Emotion is sentiment and sentiment is a weakness.>>_

_< <You would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Sarek?>>_

_< <He’s not going to get that joke.>>_

“Sir? Sir, are you okay?”

A shadow bobbed in front of his vision, followed by the bright shine of a flashlight.

  
“...Yeah.” He heard his own voice, vibrating from his throat and his head, but there was some kind of disconnect. His body seemed too large- at the same time, it felt too small. The different influences mouthing off in his head weren’t helping.

  
I _am_ panicking, He agreed. It’s just adrenaline, and adrenaline leaves the body in…

  
He felt a gentle touch on his eyelids as they were tugged up a little.

  
“Can you tell me what day it is?” The flashlight was shined directly into his eyes.

  
“Adrenaline.”

  
“What?”

  
“Adrenaline” He shook his head, recognizing her professional tone and eventually her professional expression when the vivid colors from the bright light’s gaze floated away. “I’m panicking. I can’t remember how long adrenaline stays in the system.”

  
 _ <<Stupid, little mind.>>_

  
“You mean stress hormones?” She arched a thick, dark brow. “Several hours, but no longer than a day I would think.”

  
“I had forgotten,” He grimaced as she shined the light in his other eye. “I never forget..”

  
“Well why would you know something like that off the top of your head?” She chuckled a little.

  
“...I don’t know,” He laughed a little in response.

  
“Do you remember what happened?”

  
“What? No…” He finally looked around himself, noting the cool air on his face and the smell of the ocean. He was wearing pleated trousers, a belt around his waist, but his shirt was open and unbuttoned, out of the corner of his eyes he saw an untied bowtie laying around his neck.

  
 _Black Oxford shoes._

_Tight, thick socks._

  
But he was on the beach, sitting on the sand.

  
“You just found me like this?”

  
“Yeah,” She frowned with concern. “You were just sitting here, staring at the waves. You didn’t answer me for at least fifteen minutes. Do you want me to call an ambulance? I was about to.”

  
_Western-American accent._

_Long hair._

_Darker honey blonde._

_Roots darker than ends._

_Mole on her chin._

_Thick, brown eyebrows, acne scars on left cheek._

_Mild rosacea or psoriasis._

_Darker blue eyes._

_Right-handed._

_No make up._

_Calluses between the fingers and ink stains on the hands- steady writing habit._

_Non-smoker._

_Old clothes, dark circles under eyes._

_Black t-shirt, wolf, “_ Be Were _”_

_Professional student/starving artist?_

“You’re not a doctor.” He stated, confused.

  
“No, I’m not- do you need one?” She asked eagerly, shifting from her knees to sitting on the sand as she fished out her phone.

  
“I thought you were a doctor.”

 

_Cheeks flushed-_

_Humility_  
 _Admiration for medicine, medical careers_

_Shoulders tensed._

_High level of anxiety._

_Mid-twenties._

 

“I’m alright,” He assured her, trying to rub warmth back into his legs. “Nothing is broken.”

  
“Do you know what day it is? Your name? Who’s the..” She hesitated briefly. “..queen?”

  
“The _queen?"_ He gave a funny expression.

  
“I’m sorry- my mom always said if you could answer your name, the date, and the current president, your brain couldn’t be terribly damaged,” She laughed at herself. “I’m just a giddy tourist- I should have asked about the Prime Minister, I’m sorry...”

The stranger took a black gadget off his finger.

“Sorry,” She said again, looking at the red letters it displayed then putting it back in her purse. “I got you hooked up like some sort of experiment…”

“Normal oxygen level?”

  
“Oh- yes, it’s normal. Pulse too. I  was afraid you were having a stroke,” She explained. “I have asthma so I tend to carry this around. You’re not feeling any numbness? Tingling in the arm?”

  
“No.”

  
“Do you want me to call an ambulance?” Her large eyes looked at him with a childlike sense of worry but the mother-like sense of resolve.

 

_Sensitive_

_Temperament-_

_especially sensitive to emotion._

Too sensitive to be a doctor.

 

“No.” He could feel his mind slowing to a more natural pace. Coming back to familiarity with his body.

  
“A lot of anxiety?”

  
“Yes, but it’s leaving. What time is it?”

The moon was fairly high in the sky but that didn’t tell him much.

  
“It’s almost 10,” She answered, turning on her cell phone to look. “Do you want to call someone? A relative or a friend? I don’t have a car with me but I can look up a bus station or directions…”

 

_< <You need to call someone. Anyone.>>_

_< <I agree, get context for what has happened.>>_

_< <Ridiculous. You can’t remember how you got here, what circumstances you are in. Why would you remember any contacts? Find a road, follow it, gather reconnaissance.>>_

_< <This isn’t a bloody war, he’s not a criminal. You have friends, use them. Don’t hide.>>_

_< <It’s the 21st century, find your trail of breadcrumbs: security footage, receipts, train tickets.>>_

_< <You should wait to retrace your steps, what if you’re hurt?>>_

 

“Maybe a roommate?” She suggested after a few moments of silence.

_< <Sherlock, this is a rock-climbing exercise. Look for handholds and footholds. Where can you move next? Where can you start?>>_

“How far am I from London?” He asked, buttoning his shirt and checking his pockets.

 

_Lint, dust, sand?_

_Rubber band_

_Phone- ?_

  
He pulled out his pockets completely.

_Phone case, empty._

_Plastic, black, right side cracked_

_Paper business card- old, worn, purple text illegible._

  
_< <Dead end.>>_

_< <No, coded message. It could help you remember when you figure out how to translate it.>>_

 

“Damn,” He sighed, slipping the card back into his pocket.

“London you said? There- is that the last place you remember?”

 

_Stuttering._

_Concern intensified._

 

“...Are we far from London? How far?”

“You’re in Scotland, Isle of Harris. Are you sure you don’t want an ambulance?”

 

_< <Stay calm.>>_

_< <You’ll figure out how you got here. Trail of breadcrumbs.>>_

_< <Here’s the advantage of being accustomed to being alone, little brother.>>_

The voices were so familiar, like parental influences, but he couldn’t name them.

They were probably just projections of his ego, super-ego…

_< <“Id” is the third one.>>_

  
_ <<Everyone has internal dialogue. A home inside their head filled with people, influences, memories.>>_

“No, I’m…” He paused, carefully standing but ignoring her offer for help. “..I was coming here. I remember now.”

  
“Yeah?” She was holding her keys. He recognized pepper spray on her key chain.

  
“I was coming..to visit.”

  
She followed his gaze and explained hastily, “Nervous habit- I wasn’t going to spray you. I mean, unless you turned out to be some kind of freak.”

 

_**FREAK.** _

 

That plucked a passionate and sensitive string inside him but there wasn't time to analyze it now.

  
“I’m Wrenne,” She put out a hand to shake, using her other hand to place her keys in her purse. He shook her hand out of instinct. “I swear I wasn’t going to spray you! A girl by herself after dark, you know?” She chuckled a little nervously. “You thinking a little more clearly? Do you remember your birthday, who’s the prime minister?”

  
“Are you sure you don’t mean the queen?”

  
Wrenne laughed, a loud, care-free American laugh.

  
The sound helped him anchor more securely to reality. It was like a glass of water on a summer day.

  
“I’m Benedict,” He smiled. “Thank you for your help. I truly appreciate it.”

  
“Are you sure you’ll be alright? Do you have a place to go?”

The broch, he could remember it now, the eastern side of the Isle of Harris. A long-awaited vacation after working as hard and as manically as he had been during the last year.

Stupid anti-nausea medicine always made him sleepy and light-headed. He had gotten off the ferry, nauseous, so he took a pill. He had been waiting for the car when he decided to see the beach because...well, it’s the beach. He had sat down to let his head clear. The medicine must have kept him pretty out of it.

_< <What kind of nausea medication has such a side-effect? Think about it. Observe.>>_

_< <You avoid pills like the plague now that you’re clean.>>_

_< <Especially ones that would get you high. Why would you be taking something like that?>>_

_< <Falling of the wagon, are we, little brother?>>_

_< <No, you can feel that isn’t true.>>_

“Yes, I have a place,” Benedict finally answered, rubbing his lips together as the two of them made their way up the beach, back to the streets. “I think I know what happened...damn side-effects..” He chuckled a little nervously, running a hand through his hair. He felt so stupid, scaring her like that. She must have thought he was cracked for sure.

  
“Oh,” Wrenne nodded, sighing with relief. “Yeah, that can be bad. I’d definitely call the pharmacy.”

  
“Thank you, ‘Dr.’ Wrenne,” He smiled, giving her hand a brief squeeze in gratitude.

_< <Why so familiar? Is she someone you know?>>_

_< <You would recognize someone you know.>>_

_< <Why would she approach a strange man on the beach? You’re not observing.>>_

  
“No problem!" She waved his gratitude aside. “Be careful, I hope you keep feeling better. Do you need directions?”

  
 _< <You have a map.>>_

_< <You are a map!>>_

_< <When do you ever admit you need directions? You won’t even let me drive the bloody car.>>_

_< <He does have control issues.>>_

_< <You should talk, Secret-Service-Vulcan!>>_

  
“Perhaps a heading, yes. I was waiting for a car service.”

Wrenne handed him her phone.

The map application was already opened to Isle of Harris with the custom marker, “ _Exchange_ ”.

  
 _< <It’s right under your nose, brother dear. Even you can’t be so stupid as to ignore that.>>_

  
“Oh! You know what,  _I_ have _your_ phone!” Wrenne suddenly plucked hers from his grasp, replacing it with a familiar white iPhone. “I almost completely forgot! It was just sitting on the sand beside you…I don’t think it’s hurt, it isn’t wet or anything.”

  
 _< <Pause and hold. Observe her, she’s changed.>> _

_< <Why is she so enthusiastic?>>_

_< <What happened to her air of professionalism?>>_

_< <She’s acting with surgical precision. Why did she seem like a doctor?>>_

  
_Foothold_ , Ben thought, gripping his phone in his hand.

But what was he doing? He was on vacation. He wasn’t some sort of private investigator, he was an actor for hell’s sake!

  
\--

  
Wrenne watched him walk away as she made it across the street.   
That was that then. He was alive.   
She sighed, putting her phone to her ear.

  
Her heart was tight in her chest, sending pinpricks of anxiety all through her body.

  
"Hi," She spoke into the receiver. "I got him… He’s fine but- No, not the slightest. I got him though, and I’ll be watching now. There’s no escape."

  
  
 **[** - _Continued in_ _Chapter II: Broch_ _. Thanks for reading!_ - **]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {|Author's Note: Thanks again to isherlolly for the Sherlock prompt that inspired this story! I made the graphic myself and I'm still tinkering with it to fully express the story. I tried to recreate the fascinating text-format of Sherlock’s observations and text messages like on the show…the voices in «» are meant to be…well, you decide who/what/why- I’ll officially reveal it later in the story. Quite a bit of mystery in here, I can't wait to reveal it all! Any kudos/likes/constructive comments are very much appreciated! Feel free to message me or find me on Tumblr. |}


	2. Excerpt xii

 

 

{Excerpt xii}

 

 

“That’s _not_ what twerking is!”  
  
“It is.”

  
“No, it’s _not_ \- twerking is more like a-” Her hips convulsed sloppily. “ _That’s_ twerking, like a weird butt jerk,” She grabbed his hand to steady herself.  


“Descriptive, that’s quite- quite informative. _Legitimate_ dancing.”

  
“I didn’t say it was legitimate _or_ dancing! But what _you_ were doing was the Macarena, _not_ twerking!”

  
“I will believe it once the video loads.”

  
“Whether he was doing the Macarena or twerking, it would draw too much attention to himself- especially because he’s so fat," Wrenne thought aloud, nibbling nervously on her thumbnail.

  
“And the odd proportions.”

  
“Unless maybe people try not to look at him _because_ he’s fat...”

  
“Why would they try _not_ to look at something that draws so much attention?”  


“He’s not a _something_ , he’s a _someone_...and maybe they try not look because they don’t want to be rude.” Her correction was odd: gentle when most people were offended and angry.

  
“Not looking at him purposefully? That’s absurd.”

But he gave her a look, a sliver size of a look- one that made the sharp glaciers in his eyes look softer, like a tundra under moonlight. But it was [a sliver’s worth of time.](http://be-boheme.tumblr.com/post/88912244706/be-boheme-a-sliver-of-a-moment-in-my)

  
“What?” She narrowed her eyes.

  
“I think they would notice either way," He continued, ducking under her question. "So for this _jerk_ , you plié, then-.” He placed a hand on the top of one of the armchairs for balance, a long knife in his other hand as he mimicked a specific stabbing motion.

  
“More like a _grande_ plié, Sherlock, that’s a _demi_. Put your hands on your hips or thighs. And don’t give me that shit- I read that look you just gave me. I read it as easily as you’d catch the difference between-.” She hesitated.”-Honeydew Perique Tobacco ash and- um- Turkish tobacco ash.”

  
“Another hit for my web page, then.”

  
“I owed it another read after you read my thesis- but _don't_ patronize me.”  


Sherlock’s face wilted into that white-sheet look; when he was caught off guard by a misinterpreted observation or one he had missed entirely. But his expression of surprise was just another sliver of a moment. A _sliver_ of a moment.  


"I wouldn't patronize you," He turned away to a pile of knives heaped into the fireplace hearth, inspecting different weapons. "That's a rather misguided assumption for someone who prides herself on her _empathy_ and intelligence."

  
"I'm sorry," Wrenne waved her bad temper away. "I'm just kind of pissed off still."

  
"So you _haven’t_ forgiven him yet?”  


“What, John and my graduate thesis?” She grit her teeth and set her jaw. “He really hurt my feelings. Like I said, I’m still pissed off.”  


“Interesting.”  


“Huh?”  


“The world you move in, it’s quite interesting.”  


“Which is _Sherlockian_ for ridiculous.”  


“I wasn’t aware I had my own language.”

  
“...243,” Wrenne sighed, thoughtfully. “I never would argue the knowledge isn’t useful, but the way you found it out? You must be one hell of a smoker.”

  
“I _was_ .”  


“No, you _are_ .”  


She must have a doberman's sense of smell.  


“Holidays don’t count.”  


“I didn’t know cancer took time off for holidays.”  


“Where there’s free healthcare, it does.”  


She laughed and took his arm again to balance as she stood across from him, swaying her weight onto one foot in a frozen dance move.

  
“No, see- there is _no_ way he could have stabbed her like that. I’m not even close to-”

  
“-That’s because there wasn’t such a height difference. He’s a bloater. I need John, he’s usefully short.”

  
She laughed again at the term when a loud, siren-like techno music started blaring from the laptop on the table by the window. Wrenne jumped up eagerly, laughing and pointing at the screen.  


“See? I told you! Twerking is the butt jerk!” She turned her legs out in a plié and twitched her abdomen in a snappy, jiggly fashion.

  
“That’s ridiculous!”

  
“It _is_ -” Wrenne nodded.  


“I _knew_ it was ridiculous!” Sherlock banged the empty tea tray with his hand. “A serrated knife couldn’t _ever_ make such clean slices in the latissimus dorsi, especially with such jolting movements to disguise the attack which means he murdered her _after_ he left the dance club! I _told_ him- idiots...”

He looked at the video with a raised eyebrow.  


“You’re trying very hard to keep from smiling,” Wrenne teased.  


“Because I’m simultaneously irritated and perplexed by this ridiculous dance move.”

  
“It _is_ weird,” She agreed. “But probably because it’s meant for people with an ass.”  


“An ass.”

  
“Yeah, you know,” She took Sherlock by the arm and turned him sideways. “You’re tall and cute but you don’t really have an ass. It’s a Caucasian epidemic, nothing to feel bad about.”

  
“You are _quite_ American,” He chuckled.

  
“Thank you, but it’s not personal. I’m lucky, my great-grandmother had soul so I inherited some soul which gives me _some_ immunity to it which is good for dancing but bad for finding jeans that fit. Yet where there’s one chocolate-skinned relative from Trinidad, there’s _centuries_ of pasty, white people so it doesn't help me that much...”  


Wrenne popped her joints in an attempt to copy the dancer in the video, jokingly wriggling her body as she kept balance holding onto Sherlock’s arm.

  
“Yeah, you’re right-,” She picked up the knife Sherlock had been holding. “There’s no way to cut cleanly with a serrated knife while juggling your flab like this…”

  
A smile twinkled on his face and brightened to laughter.

  
"But we don't _really_ know what kind of dancing she was doing on the security footage. Could different dancing have helped him _begin_ to cut to her spine?" Wrenne straightened and rubbed her back.  


"No."  


"How do you know?" She asked eagerly, not accusatory.

  
"I'll show you when John gets here, he's the right height."

  
"Right, ‘usefully short’. So do you not know the Macarena either, then?"

  
"If it's not the butt jerk," He shrugged his shoulders.  


Wrenne started typing on the laptop.

"It was huge when I was eight years old. My teacher actually banned it from the classroom. That and Pokemon cards. A stabbing motion is more likely to be disguised by the Macarena than the twerking. Neither make sense, but considering the context.."

  
"No, twerking makes more sense than the Maca- Maca-Mariachi, whatever it is."

  
"You don't even know what the Macarena is! You thought it was the butt jerk!"

  
"This is the _only_ circumstance when that knowledge matters-," Sherlock paused, thinking. "There are only _seven_ circumstances I can think of when such knowledge would matter."

  
"Look, you do one, I'll do the other. Which knife do you think he used now since it’s definitely _not_ a serrated one? I think I'm holding the wrong knife..."

  
And when John _did_ come in- he had heard the music growling and bumping through the walls as he came up the stairs- he wasn’t prepared for the scene in the apartment which left him laughing so hard he choked, gasping for air and only regaining his composure after a drink of water.

  
“So we’re keeping her, then?” John eventually managed. “Will you two be dancing _every_ day?”

  
“You don’t give away free shows!” Wrenne scoffed, clearing the tea tray and putting away the 13 discarded knives.“Next time we’ll charge you for the dancing.”

  
“John, stand here,” Sherlock smiled, using his foot to tap on the floor where an “x” mark was taped. “It’s your turn to be the fatty, come on.”

  
“Seven extra pounds _doesn’t_ make me a fatty,” John grumbled, finishing his drink.

  
“The extra weight doesn’t hurt your chances,” He replied, typing on his cell phone, with the deft and graceful fingers of a pianist. “It's _n_ _ot_ the serrated knife, John! I knew it...not the bowie, the kukri- I _told_ Lestrade- it was a _Mezzaluna_ ...at least for the first clean cut to the trapezius...”  


“Mezza-? Sherlock, that’s a _kitchen_ knife...”

  
“‘Herb chopper’, _hachoir_ to the French, consisting of single or double blades, curved and usually made of Japanese stainless steel, handles on each end. A kitchen knife can be deviated into a weapon, John, you must be aware of that when you’re in too much of a rush to grab a tire iron. Come on now, get over by the chair and Macarena-”

  
“-Twerk,” Wrenne corrected.

  
“ _Twerk !_ ” John cried, exasperated as he ran a hand over his eyes.

  
“Whatever it’s called, jerk your backside like that disco video and the footage from _Retoxx_ ,” He jerked his head toward the laptop. “...and see if you can reasonably slice Wrenne’s shoulder blades.”

  
"Uh- no, Sherlock- I'm getting more milk and I _still_ have to return all these knives before the armory notices who took them."

  
"Except the _Mezzaluna_."

  
"At least that one doesn't belong to a historical armory," She sighed.

  
"Yes, of course, you have much to do- John, she's still upset with you for lying to her."  


Wrenne dropped her bag of knives.

"Dammit, Sherlock!" She flushed.

  
"You're the one who insists emotions only grow stronger when ignored. Now talk about this quickly, the butcher said he'd only hold the cow carcass for three more hours."

  
"Wrenne-." John began but she wouldn't let him finish.

  
" _Stop_ , okay? I _don't_ want to do this."

  
"She's uncomfortable with anger because her father was emotionally repressed and distant while her mother was verbally abusive," Sherlock didn't even look up from his phone.

  
"I'm not doing this," She picked up the bag, angrily swiping the rest of the knives back into it.

  
"Said the _'Empath ,'_ " Sherlock rolled his eyes, expressing his disbelief of the term.  


"Stop _forcing_ things, Sherlock!" John threw up his hands.  


"If I don't _force_ things then her dislike for you will turn into hatred and that will be incredibly inconvenient."  


A white iPhone on the kitchen counter sounded.  


"That's the butcher," Wrenne sighed, picking up her phone and checking the text message.

 

 

> _Got a better offer for the cow. If you want it, double your price and get here before the other bloke._

 

"We need to get the carcass now or else he's selling it to someone else. He wants twice as much for it too."

  
"Give it to him. John, go with her, she can't carry a full cow by herself and in the meantime work out your issues so you can Maca-twerk with the _Mezzaluna_."

  
Sherlock swiftly closed the door to his room, taking the mezzaluna and a beaker full of green gelatin.

  
_ <<We hadn’t laughed like that in ages.>> _

_ <<You won’t hesitate to make a jackass out of yourself, will you?>> _

_ <<Strange of you to take on the role of school therapist.>> _

_ <<Everything has to happen on your time-table! We would have worked it out on our own...>> _

_ <<John, you're much less emotionally-savvy than you think.>> _

<<She did give us a good laugh.>>  


But there was more than that- it was blurry, seeping into the dreams of R.E.M. sleep, but he could reach out and graze the slippery, running water edges of memory:

Sadness, staining like the tired blue gray eyes of winter mountains.  


_Empath._

_Orange powder._

_Plant._

_Lutherum._

_"Gadjo"_

 

 

Empath?

 

_ <There’s no such thing.> _

_ <<No, emotional intelligence, EI, can be scientifically measured. Empaths are possibly real, but just people with high levels of EI.>> _

_ <<Rubbish.>> _

 

The vice-like pressure of observation mismatching concrete evidence-

The flat, fish eyes of corpses.

Irises bleeding into red, like dye in water.

 

_Popped blood vessel?_

_Thin slices to the latissimus dorsi and trapezius._

_Dark--irc--s--inso-n-a_

_-o--si-n--struggle._

_Ventilation systems._

_No-e-x---check--d-e--mis._

 

_“You have the answers right in front of you- but locked away in her mind and she moves in the one realm you cannot possibly comprehend.”_

_  
“He isn’t _ one _man, Sherlock."_

 

 

> **Heartbleed Deaths T-av--in- -c--s- t-e -o-d**
> 
> **-a--m-? --ps--e**

 

_ <<It’s no good, don’t force it.>> _

_ <<It isn’t coming to you, that’s alright. Happier memories are easier to recall but the neural pathways are rather fragile-.>> _

_ <<But it'll come.>> _

_ <<If you were smarter-.>> _

_ <<If he were smarter!>> _

_ <<He’s fine the way he is.>> _

_ <<Only because he settled for it.>> _

 

_Addict._

**_Freak._ **

  
Ben caught his breath and bobbed back to the surface of consciousness.

 **[** _-Sneak Peek of Chapter II-_ **]**

 

 

Ben caught his breath and bobbed back to the surface of consciousness.

He scratched his head, ruffling his hair where it had been pressed against his forehead.

 **  
** _ <<Let your mind rest. It will repair itself.>> _

_ <<Of course it will, it’s not like your pressed for time. It’s not like lives are in the balance while you lounge around up North.>> _

_ <<He’ll find a way. You always find a way.>> _

 

Damn if his head wasn’t loud.

 

_ <<Reconnaissance, come on, now.>> _

_ <<Pressure won’t help. It’s rock-climbing- where’s your next foot hold?>> _

 

He turned over in a defiant attempt to go back to sleep, but the sunlight pooled from the crack between the shades, cupping his cheek in its warm hand.

Playfully tickling his eyelashes.

 

  _Holiday, it’s holiday and I’m going to sleep dammit._

 

 

He shifted irritably, bumping into a warm touch in between his ankles, a strange weight at the end of the bed.

 **  
** Ben lifted his head, glancing at his feet.

 

A striped and spotted cat was curled happily at the foot of the bed, resting its head on his left ankle.

 

 

 

_Siamese._

 

_Tabby/Siamese mix._

 

_Dark gray spots, off-white blotches._

 

_Black and white stripes._

 

_Five to ten pounds overweight._

 

 

 

Housecat? He didn’t recall that being mentioned in the email. He sat up, leaning on his elbow and touching the cat’s puffy belly.

It turned its head up, stretching out its limbs in a long, satisfied line.

 

The broch was a quiet house, but quiet in a way that left the residence feeling full rather than lonely and empty.

 

_ <<That’s because someone else is here.>> _

 

Ben frowned as the thought rung loudly through his senses. He pulled the bed sheet the rest of the way off the bed and wrapped himself in it as he tread into the kitchen.

Modern brochs were roomier than he would’ve thought.

 

Stone walls, a lot of glass- the kitchen that cold, sterile, and steel, so popular now...

 

It didn’t have much heart, though. Not a lot of character.

 

 

Not many places for someone to hide either.

 

 

 

_Coffee machine-_

_plugged in,_

_fresh pot._

_Nearly full._

 

Curious.

 

_ <<Hospitality?>> _

_ <<Coincidence.>> _

_ <<What do we say about coincidences?>> _

 

 

A newspaper on the kitchen counter read,

 

> _**Heartbleed Deaths Travel Across the Pond** _

Ben felt a strange sensation- prickling the back of his brain like a rain stick turning over. Something familiar, something grazing his senses.

 

_Danger._

 

It was exhilarating.

 

“Hello?” He called out. “Who’s in here?” He demanded in his go-to voice for intimidation and no-nonsense.

__

_ <<Most burglars run for cover when they hear that!>> _

_ <<It’s a logical approach.>> _

_ <<A logical approach for the French.>> _

_ <<That’s rude. You know one in four English words are French.>> _

_ <<What country are you from again?>> _

_ <<I think you mean one in four _ French _words are_ English _. >> _

 

 

 

_Paranoid, you’re being paranoid._

Ben turned around to go back to the bedroom.

 

 

 

_Someone is here._

This time it echoed, bouncing off the corners of his mind.

He _wasn’t_ alone.

 

_ <<Don't doubt your instincts.>> _

[- _To be continued in the rest of Chapter II: Broch, thanks for reading!_ -]

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After finishing this chapter, I ran into a gif that perfectly demonstrates what I'm trying to describe-- click the link attached to the line, "a sliver's worth of time" to see the gif.
> 
> I found this and the second chapter very difficult to write. I couldn’t decide whether to continue with the stream-of-consciousness style from the prelude, change to a more traditional 3rd-person perspective, or make the rest of the story something completely different...I wanted to keep a fairly consistent feel that coincided with the show while also keeping my narrative unique. After thinking about it for days and playing with different formats, I started to wonder what is something specific that makes the Sherlock show so captivating?
> 
> I realized that for me, it’s wondering what’s going on in the characters’ heads- especially Sherlock’s. 
> 
> So I decided to variate the stream-of-consciousness with the rather impersonal 3rd-person perspective that’s kind of in the show itself (the latter will be "Excerpts" like this chapter, depicting scenes from before Sherlock's mysterious memory-loss).
> 
> Once I had that figured out, the first scene was actually easy- it came to me in the shower…I..certainly wasn’t trying to do a specific dance move. No, certainly not. Who gets inspired by a fad dance move? xD It was fun looking up different types of tobacco ash and knives (there used to be a real Sherlock Holmes Science of Deduction website! But it’s been closed for a while…) 
> 
> I had quite a lot of fun writing that bit in particular. Anyway, I included a sneak peek of the "official" second chapter (which will return to the style of the prelude) because I know it’s been a while and you guys deserve it for your patience!
> 
> In case there was any doubt, there is a murder case here amongst the rest of the plot. A BIG one. Heh heh… And to my lovely Sherlolly followers who may be waiting for a certain pathologist to enter the story….be patient =3 That’s all I’ll say for now...  
> In case there was any doubt, there is a murder case here amongst the rest of the plot. And to my lovely Sherlolly followers who may be waiting for a certain pathologist to enter the story….be patient =3 That’s all I’ll say for now.  
> Feel free to send your comments or advice. It’s pretty tough writing dialogue for Cumbie- let alone Sherlock /acting/ as Cumbie ^^ ; And my British slang is probably outdated...


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